Dirty Money

“Because we’re rich. We’re good with our money. And people that should respect us treat us like we’re fucking ticks on a dog’s ass.”

Clay just snorts. “Worse ’n that.”

He’s not helping.

“So we’re trash,” Gage chimes in. “So what’s the big deal? We might as well own it.” He grins and rips one sleeve off of his T-shirt, then the other. Knox hoots with laughter, clapping him on the shoulder. Clay just rolls his eyes.

“Because it should matter. We should matter. I want respect.” I think of all the assholes in my life that did me dirty, and it burns in my gut. I’ve worked hard to get to where we’re at today, harder than most men. I want the assholes that sit down with me in boardrooms and out in the field to realize I know what I’m talking about. That I’m not just a dumb roughneck that struck it rich. That I took that money and turned it into an empire in the space of a few years. That I make more money in the time it takes for me to wipe my ass than they’ll make in a lifetime.

Maybe that makes me an arrogant prick, but I don’t fucking care. I want people to tremble when they see me. I want those pencil-dicks in suits to quail when I arrive, not turn their noses up at me. I want them to know who’s in charge.

“It’s all image, brother,” Seth says, returning with the waitress. She’s pretty, with brassy blonde hair and tits that are overflowing her too-tight shirt. She smiles at me but I just nudge my glass in her direction. Ain’t got time for waitresses. Those don’t get a man respect, especially not this one. We come to this bar regularly and I’ve seen her sneak into the back with more than one trucker. If she wants a good time, she ain’t getting it from me.

“You’re one to talk,” Clay calls out to Seth, and mockingly runs his hands through his hair. “Oh, look at me, I’m Seth and I’m using product.”

Our entire table bursts into laughter, and I even crack a smile. Seth comes around the edge of the table and puts Clay in a headlock, smirking. Clay just grabs at Seth’s shirt and tries to haul our littlest brother over his shoulder before he gets choked out.

The waitress ignores our roughhousing and switches the beers out. She casts me one last heated look before giving up and returning to the bar.

“I’m right, though,” Seth says to me, even though Clay’s got the flat of one hand in his face. “It’s image. S’all fuckin’ image, bro. Why do you think those dumbasses wear suits everywhere?”

I shrug, but I’m pondering his words. He ain’t wrong. “I’m not cutting my beard.”

“No one’s saying you gotta cut your beard, Boone,” Knox comments, taking a swig of his beer and then swapping it with Seth’s full glass. “Just, you know. Class it up.”

I grunt. “I don’t even know how.” I am who I am, and if the world doesn’t like it, they can suck my dick.

“Get yourself a big house.”

“I got a house.” Well. Sorta. I got a trailer. But I also don’t have a family and I work a lot, so a house isn’t big on the priority list. But maybe Knox is right.

“Get a bigger one. Big car. A classy lady.” Gage wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Spend some of that money you hold on to so tightly.”

“You mean like you?” I drawl. Gage loves to live the good life. He takes his buddies on vacations, buys them cars, and has an endless cycle of new female friends in his life. Maybe he’s right, though. It ain’t me, but . . . maybe I need to change. Maybe I need to start throwing my money around if I want people to respect me instead of look at me like I’m some dumbass hillbilly.

“Nah, my lady friends aren’t quite to the caliber you need,” Gage replies. He picks up the advertisement card at the end of our table and holds it out. “Like this one here. She looks like a classy broad.”

I take the advertisement from him and study it. We come in here every weekend, usually after a long drive out from Odessa, and I’ve never once noticed the pamphlets they litter the ends of the tables with. This one’s bland and boring, for the most part. It’s a picture of three men and a slender, pale blonde standing at their side. Three Jacks Real Estate. San Antonio’s Premiere Living Experts. The guys in suits don’t interest me, but the woman does. She’s wearing a cream-colored suit with a tapered skirt, and it makes her legs look fucking amazing. She’s tiny, but those legs look like they go on for miles. I like a girl with long legs, so they can wrap around me when I fuck her.

I’m a simple man.

The rest of her’s pretty nice, if a little preppy and stiff. Her tits are decent sized, which means small enough to not be fake. Her hair’s a soft, smooth gold pulled back into a ponytail, and her face is real dainty with a pointy little chin and big eyes. She’s wearing a strand of pearls at her neck, and no other jewelry. She’s not flashy, but from top to bottom? She looks classy.

And I wonder what she’d look like with her mouth on my dick, my hand on that ponytail of hers.

Like I said, I’m a simple man.

I study the picture for a while longer, then glance over at Knox. “You know these people?”

He shakes his head and carefully switches his half-empty glass with Gage’s full one when Gage is eyeing a piece of tail by the bar. Knox is a sneaky bastard, but that’s par for the course. “Saw the flyers, that’s all. But she looks like a lady to me.”

I gaze at the picture, scratching at my jaw. That she does. From the lines of her elegant skirted suit to the smooth fall of her hair—even to them small tits—she screams class. And while I usually don’t have time to pursue a woman—business is the only relationship I’m in—I have to admit she appeals to my animal instincts. Maybe it’s that sweet, gentle smile on her face or the perfection of her appearance. Maybe it’s those legs. Either way, I picture her in my bed, rumpled from a good round of fucking . . . and I’m interested.

Someone like her? She’d class things up just by walking into a room. And a girl like her wouldn’t have anything to do with a guy like me. Not before I got rich, that is. “All right. I’ll take her.”

“You mean someone like her?” Clay asks, amused.

“No, I mean her. I like the way she looks.” I study the picture a moment longer and then tuck it into my back pocket. I’m gonna jerk off to it later, picturing that sweet, pink bow of a mouth closing over the head of my cock. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea.

A classy woman. Yeah. One to stand at my side and look like a peach, and make all those other bastards jealous. One I can dirty up and show just what a roughneck likes between the sheets.

I like this idea. I like it a lot.

But Clay just laughs, and even Knox looks amused. “It ain’t a girlfriend catalog,” Clay comments. “It’s an advertisement. You don’t know nothin’ about her.”

“I know she’s classy. That’s all I need to know.”

“If she’s so classy, how you gonna get her to date you?” Knox raises an eyebrow at me. He takes a sip of his drink and I notice it’s full. Again. I wonder how he does that—switching glasses without anyone ever noticing. And then I wonder what else he switches when we’re not paying attention.

“I’m rich, ain’t I? That convinces a lot of women.”

“Not the ones worth having,” Clay adds.

He’s got a point. I stroke my beard thoughtfully. “You said I needed a fancy house. I guess I’ll have her sell me one.”

“What if she’s married?” Knox adds. “You still want her then?”

I frown at them and pull the picture back out of my pocket. “Ain’t married,” I say after a moment, studying her small hands. “No ring.”

“She’s the ad candy,” Clay points out. “Put a pretty girl in there with all the sausages in suits so guys like ol’ Boone here think they have a shot if they go in and buy a house.” He elbows me, grinning. “Works, too.”

“You’re a dick,” I tell him, and thump the picture. “And you’re just jealous you didn’t see her first.”

“Nah,” Clay says. “I like my women a little rough around the edges.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “So when you gonna meet Miss Classy and scope her out?”

I eye Miss Classy in the picture, and my gaze goes down to those long legs. Might be nice to get laid before the weekend, if I can talk this sweet piece into it. I’ve never dated a classy girl before, so maybe she ain’t that type. She might be cold. Hell, she might fuck with that same starchy look on her face. That’s a depressing thought.

Only one way to find out, though. “Guess I go house hunting tomorrow.”

My brothers just smirk.

Chapter Two

Ivy

A familiar tweed suit passes by the print room while I’m standing over the copier. I immediately abandon my task and race after him. “Oh! Jack! I didn’t realize you were in the office! Wait up!” I hate that I have to scramble after him—in heels, no less—but the bastard’s not slowing down an iota. I hobble after him on the marble floors of Three Jacks Real Estate’s swanky office, hoping I don’t fall on my ass and make a fool of myself in front of the others. When Jack doesn’t stop, I have to speed up just to catch him. “Jack!”

He finally stops, right at the front doors of the office, and frowns at me like I’m an annoying puppy. “What is it, Ivy? I’m on my way out the door, as you can see.” He gestures at the large glass double doors like I’m an idiot. “Let’s make this fast.”

“Of course!” I put on my fake, cheeriest realtor smile. “I was just going to say that my day is clear, and I know LaDonna had that big house on Forsyth that was scheduled to have a showing. I’ve made flyers—well, actually, they’re on the copier right now—and I can go handle things, maybe pass out a few cards—”